Chapter 19
NICO
It takes me a full week to get to Bolgheri.
Not because I don't want to be there—I do—but because everything seems determined to fall apart the moment harvest begins.
It starts in California.
One of our largest distributors calls an emergency meeting after a journalist leaks internal pricing documents showing projected increases over the next three years for our premium labels.
An executive had floated the numbers in a "hypothetical" deck, which was forwarded to someone else, and by the time it hit the press, the narrative was already set, and the headlines went in the vein of: The House of Alighieri is pricing wine out of reach.
Retailers panic.
Sommeliers start talking.
Importers threaten to pause allocations unless we walk it back publicly.
Then Loire follows.
An early frost wipes out half the yield at one of the estates we contract with, and suddenly our commitments are impossible to meet unless we cannibalize allocations promised elsewhere. Contracts, penalties, reputations—all on the line.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, Chile chooses that week to remind me that seismic risk is not theoretical.
A minor earthquake. No injuries. Some damage to the vines and cellars, which is enough to halt production and send our insurers into a spiral.
Three continents.
Four time zones.
Endless calls.
It's a PR nightmare, which means Chiara and her team are surgically attached to Renzo and me.
We freeze price increases for eighteen months, absorb the margin hit, and sell it to the board as long-term brand protection.
I personally call distributors in the United States and Europe, reassure them, and give them something better than an email—a voice, a plan, and accountability.
In Loire, I oversee the restructuring of allocations, spread the pain evenly, absorb the penalties rather than letting our partners drown.
In Chile, I greenlight emergency inspections and personally sign off on the restart.
It's exhausting—but this is the kind of pressure I thrive in; it's what I've been hired to do.
Between my responsibilities and hers, Alessia and I manage one nightly call—ten minutes, fifteen if she's still upright. No matter how hectic things have been for me, a winemaker during harvest isn't just busy; their time is rarer than a '69 Romanée-Conti.
My wife is deep in harvest now, running on caffeine and instinct. Her voice is bright but tight, like a violin string pulled too far.
So, I don't tell her about the crises or board politics or journalists sharpening knives. She doesn't need my chaos added to hers.
She needs sleep.
By the end of the week, I'm done pretending Florence is where I need to be. For my mental health and sanity, I need to be with my wife.
I find Renzo in my office, jacket off, tie abandoned, staring at a screen with the kind of concentration that makes him good at his job.
"I'm going to Bolgheri," I tell him.
He looks up instantly. "Finally."
"I'm taking the helicopter. You're coming with me. We'll work from the estate."
He nods and continues to type.
"Renzo?"
"Si. Si." He irritably picks up his laptop and walks with me, his eyes on the screen.
We're halfway to the lift when Chiara steps in front of me. I groan out loud. "If I have to talk to another journalist, Chiara, I'm going to commit murder."
A flicker of impatience crosses her face. "We need to sort out the planning for your strategy presentation—we have only a week, and we haven't even started."
Oh yes, the post-harvest strategy presentation that's going to become the bane of my existence until it's done.
It's a House of Alighieri tradition. We invite everyone we work with to Florence—we throw a big party at the Palazzo, and I tell the wine world what's coming from the company for the next year.
Our marketing teams have been working with me to finalize the strategy for the following year, and Chiara's team has been converting it into glossy slides and handouts to be presented to our distributors and partners at the Vendemmia Gala, alongside some of our finest vintages.
"Let's talk tomorrow," I tell her calmly, in a tone that usually tells people who know me I'm not in the mood for an argument. "I'm going to Pietra Alta."
"But—"
Renzo glances up. "Chiara, give the man a breather, okay?"
She ignores Renzo and fixes me with a sharp, venomous stare. "This cannot wait. Your wife can."
I stop walking, and so does Renzo.
I turn to face her fully, making sure my voice stays level while I hold her gaze.
"What you did just now," I reprimand coldly, "was inappropriate."
"I'm doing my job," she hisses.
"Your job is not to talk about my private life."
She huffs out a laugh. "Dio, Nico, I've known you longer than your wife has."
I lean closer to her, nose to nose. "Don't mistake our past friendship and working relationship for permission to mouth off about my personal life."
"Nico," Renzo warns as the lift door opens. "Not here."
I step into the elevator, Renzo and Chiara falling in behind me. As it climbs, I glance at the woman I once slept with, once confused affection for substance with proximity—and I'm struck by how shallow I was. I mistook polish for depth, sheen for character.
Chiara is all surface—well-made, perfectly finished, ready to drink young. Alessia is something else entirely. Only a fool confuses a wine polished for the tasting room with one that survives the cellar.
"We're really late with the presentation, Nico," she implores, her demeanor shifting from bellicose to soft plea.
"I am your boss, Chiara, not your fucking pet. You bring up my marriage, my wife, and my personal life again, and I will fire you. Are we clear?"
She pushes away from me, and her back hits the elevator wall. She's never experienced this Nico—though she has seen me cut the legs off others who cross me. I don't think she ever thought she'd be at the receiving end of my ire, but then neither did I.
She opens her mouth, but I don't give her the space.
"And you will not put me in a position where Alessia has reason to question anything. Ever."
Chiara stares at me, calculating. "So, she told you about our conversation all those months ago at the Palazzo?" she snaps, dropping the professional veneer.
No, she didn't, and now I want to know what the fuck Chiara said to her.
I don't respond. Don't confirm or deny.
She squirms. "I…look…then things were different."
"Things between you and me have been the same for five years, Chiara, so what on earth are you talking about?"
She looks at Renzo like he'll help her, but he's looking through his computer. I doubt he's missed a second of our conversation, but I also doubt he hasn't been keeping track of the spreadsheet he's looking at. Renzo can multitask with the best of them.
The elevator stops, and we step out. She licks her lips. "I am sorry."
"Apology accepted," I say, and then add, "It can never happen again."
"Yes." She follows us out to the rooftop. "Nico, we need to work on this presentation. Please, you need to help me do my job." The venom is gone from her tone, and her request is professional.
The helicopter blades are already spinning.
I want to get rid of Chiara, of all my responsibilities, and be where I belong, which I know is with my wife, who is running herself ragged in a vineyard that smells like crushed fruit and promise, waiting for a man who is finally on his way.
"Why don't I come along and we can have a quick meeting, two hours, max," she suggests.
I am loathe to take her to where Alessia is, but if I am demanding professionalism from her, I have to offer it, too. I'm taking Renzo, aren't I? She's no different.
"Fine. But we go now. I'm not waiting." Most women like to pick up a purse or some other crap, so maybe I still have the chance to get rid of her.
"No problem." She smiles and pats her shoulder, which has a large tote hanging from it that I didn't notice earlier. "I have everything I need."
"Fine," I mutter with zero grace.
Alessia isn't at the house when we land, which isn't surprising. She's somewhere in the vines, busy as fuck. Harvest has a rhythm. You don't interrupt it unless something is on fire.
I text her, though, and let her know that I'm at the house, sitting outside under her favorite pergola, working. The weather is pleasant. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect. Good weather for harvest.
In any case, I know she likes to be done with picking, latest by noon, and then spends the rest of her day and half the night in the cellar.
Me: No rush, cara. I'm here. I'll be here through the weekend.
I am lying, though, because there is a rush. I want to see her. I have missed her badly.
All these emotions are so fucking new and unique. I've never experienced them before. Not being with her is like having a limb missing. I've heard people say that's what love feels like, and I always thought it was hyperbole. I was wrong.
"Isn't there an office here?" Chiara complains.
I insist on working at the long wooden table beneath the pergola—the same one Alessia drinks her morning coffee at, the same one where she reads lab reports and eats standing up during harvest.
"This is the office," Renzo tells her as he opens his laptop.
Chiara looks at me, waiting for me to say something, but I don't. I don't give two fucks what she thinks. I want to work here, close to the vines where I can watch for Alessia. I don't want to sit in some office with a window.
I open my email program and ignore her.
She waits for nearly five minutes, huffs loudly, and then spreads out printed decks like she's laying claim to territory.
"Okay, so…let's do this." Chiara looks pointedly at our laptops.
We smile tightly.
“Can you both, please, not work on other things while we discuss this?” she snaps.
We both sigh and close our laptops.
I'm not able to focus because I want to see Alessia, and Renzo isn't either, because he's knee-deep in pricing Excel sheets. But the strategy presentation is important—has to be, since we let Chiara wheedle her way into Bolgheri.